


The Chant of Lyrium

by Gallicenae



Series: Misc Fic Gifts [11]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chant of Light, F/M, Lyrium, Lyrium Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 05:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallicenae/pseuds/Gallicenae
Summary: Cullen has been taking lyrium for some months, and the side-effects are starting to wear on him and his relationship.





	The Chant of Lyrium

**Author's Note:**

> Fic commission for nekrosoma on tumblr.

Cullen bit at his fingertips, the pinpricks of cold dulling only when he managed to work his teeth against the raw pads of old blisters. The song was a whisper in the base of his skull, even as the headache from wanting more, from _needing_ more, crashed against his temples. How long had it been?

He pulled open a drawer of his desk, not bothering to look at the pile of missives resting atop the wood. _Whispers. Whispers. Whispers._ It wasn’t there. He opened another, rifled through the contents, left it open, reached for one more. His lips moved in a silent murmur with every drawer he pulled, every shelf he searched. _Whispers._ Where was it?

A knock at the door. Another. Cullen waved the sound away; it was too harsh, too solid. Not what he was looking for. He walked around his room, pacing like an animal in a cage, pausing at every break in light from the windows. The knock came again, insistent, invasive, pounding against the walls of his mind. Three steps, three. From the desk to the door. Three.

“Commander? Commander, sir, I have what you requested.” _Whispers._

If he opened the door, it would be gone. All gone. The very last of it taken away with the wind and into the sky. The sky. The sky. _The sky_. It was raw, like the needles in his fingers and the thirst in his throat.

The door opened. Imra stepped through with a box under her arm. She nodded to the soldier and thanked him, relieving him of his duty so that she might attend to the Commander instead. She hoped Cullen would listen to her this time.

“Close the door.” The demand was growled. Cullen’s knuckles were white as they gripped the ends of his desk, bracing himself over unsigned reports and duty rosters.

“Cullen, you...” Shadows rimmed the Commander’s eyes as stray curls hung about his brow. His armor was strewn about the floor amongst open books with tattered pages. The trim and organized demeanor of Cullen’s quarters had given way to chaos. Imra set the box gingerly in front of him. “You don’t look well.”

_Whispers. Whispers._ What did she expect? _She_ did this. _She_ took the song away. He glowered up at the Inquisitor as his hands opened the latch to the parcel on his desk.

“I’ve spoken with Cassandra. We think-” Imra watched a wave of relief sweep across Cullen’s face as he drank the lyrium inside the container - all of it. “- you’ve had enough...” That supply was meant to last him for the next few weeks. They had agreed to release him from the need gradually, and Imra had hoped he would agree. Cassandra had warned her it wouldn’t be that simple. The Seeker was right.

The song was in him again, filling his veins and taking away the cold and the hunger. Everything sang. _Everything. Except her. She is dark and heavy and rooted to the floor of the place. She was supposed to glow. She doesn’t. She holds you here. Enough. Enough. Enough. It will never be enough._

He threw the glass vials into a corner. “It will never be enough.”

The glass shattering against the stone made Imra jump. He hadn’t been this bad before. She tried again, “But Cullen, you can’t keep doing this.”

Imra gestured to their surroundings. “You’re ignoring your duties, you’re-” She stopped when she saw him glare at her.

_Duty. What we are meant to do. What we are trained for. Magic is meant to serve man, not rule over him. Serve, not rule. In secret they worked magic upon magic. The sky. The sky. The sky in her hand. Divided from their commanders by magic, penned like cattle for slaughter. Tumbling out of nothing. Magic. Meant to serve, not to rule. Serve. Not rule._

“My duties?” Cullen swung an arm over his desk. His wrist hit the stack of papers and sent them flying violently into the air. “My duties are to protect people! From _you_!”

He stalked over to her with long, even strides. Purposeful. Intent. Vindicated in the knowledge that he alone could end it all here and now, could restore proper order.

_I have heard the sound. A song. A song in the stillness. The echo of Your voice. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. Blessed. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. Accursed ones._

Imra shrank away from him toward the door, her fingers wrapped around the handle. She would not use magic against him, not when Cullen was like this, but she was too afraid to stay here on her own. “All I’ve ever done was try to keep the peace, try to keep people _safe_. Try to keep _you_ safe! If this was all that mattered to you, maybe you would have been better off in Kirkwall.” It hurt to say, but no more than it hurt to see Cullen drown himself with lyrium and become the creature before her now.

She left, not bothering to close the door behind her. Daylight entered in her wake, and as Cullen raised a hand to let his lyrium-addled eyes adjust, the song softened, and he almost believed his lover’s figure was wrapped in the sun’s glow.

_Blessed. Blessed. Blessed are the peacekeepers. Peace. Of the Maker’s benediction. The Light shall lead her safely through... for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield. Shield. Protection from pain, from death. Guard against all that may harm._

Cullen dropped to his knees as the realization overtook him. He had sworn to be her shield with every breath and beat of his heart, and today, the Maker had taken it upon Himself to see to Imra’s safety - because of him.

He closed his eyes in his contrition, lowering his head in prayer. Cullen struggled to say the words against the song, the lyrium threatening to drown his thoughts. But he managed one brief moment of focus to impart his intent, “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure.”


End file.
